Voice Mail Murder Part 16

"Careful," she cringed. "Kiss the left side." He did and then turned and disappeared out the door. She could hear the garage door raise and then lower.

"Well, buddy," she said to the little dog beside her. "How much damage can we do on the phone?" She reached over for one of Rocky's tasty chicken and bacon appetizers and held it up for the canine who snarfed down the treat without even chewing. Pamela lifted the receiver on the phone and called the departmental office.

"Jane Marie," she said when the secretary answered, "can you cancel my cla.s.ses for me?"

"Dr. Barnes!" cried Jane Marie, "Are you sick? It's not like you to cancel cla.s.ses!"

"A car accident," she replied. "I rammed a lamppost. Spent the night in the hospital."

"Oh no!" exclaimed the perky secretary.

"I'm fine, truly!" said Pamela. "Just a mild concussion. They just said to stay home today and rest-and you know Rocky!"

"I'm sure he wouldn't brook no back-talk!" Jane Marie answered. "I can't imagine what it must be like to be married to a drill sergeant!"

"Well," said Pamela, drifting, "it has it moments. . . ."

"Yes, I can imagine. . . " chuckled Jane Marie. "What happened? Were you hurt?"

"Just a small gash on my forehead. My brakes gave out and I rammed a lamppost."

"Your brakes? Just gave out?"

"Yes," responded Pamela.

"Oh my, that's terrible! Well, don't worry, Dr. Barnes. I'll see to it that your cla.s.ses are cancelled."

"Thanks."

"And if you're interested," she continued, "Dr. Marks is in a much better mood today. Seems he and the missus have reconciled!"

"How lovely," responded Pamela. "Don't think we could tolerate a scruffy Mitch.e.l.l Marks."

"Or a smelly one. . ." added the secretary.

"There's just too much drama over there," said Pamela. "It's probably a good idea that I stay home for a while. Maybe things will calm down."

"I don't know, Dr. Barnes," said Jane Marie, "trouble seems to follow you."

"That's what Rocky says. Now with this accident he wants to lock me up and throw away the key . . ."

"But, Dr. Barnes," she exclaimed, "it's not your fault if your brakes failed."

"That's not the point," said Pamela, grabbing her thermos lid and sipping her new warm tea. Mmmm. It was orange-very spicy. "The police think someone may have cut my brakes."

"Oh my G.o.d! Is that what you think?"

"I don't know," she said, sighing and relis.h.i.+ng the warm beverage. "Who would want to cut my brakes?"

"Someone who doesn't like you messing around in Coach Croft's murder investigation?"

"And who would that be?"

"How would I know? Maybe one of his mistresses-you know-the ones whose voices you're studying on that recording?"

"One of those women is dead. Remember?" she prompted the secretary.

"One of the other two?"

"One of them lives in Boston."

"Then the third one. Surely the police can arrest her?"

"I'm afraid not," said Pamela. "She's just one suspect. The police consider every person connected to Coach Croft a potential suspect-with the possible exception of his wife."

"I know, she's in a wheelchair," said Jane Marie, "but maybe that's an act! Maybe she's not really handicapped."

"Then she's been pulling this *act' off for many years," argued Pamela.

"I don't know, Dr. Barnes," exclaimed the secretary, "I wish I knew the answer, but you're the specialist. Can't you listen to all these peoples' voices and figure out who killed the Coach-and his mistress?"

"If only it were that simple," said Pamela. She tossed another chicken-bacon square to Candide who downed the small morsel and proceeded to lick Pamela's fingertips on her free hand.

"Isn't that what they do with a lie detector?" queried Jane Marie.

"Something like it, Jane Marie," she explained, "but my approach and that of lie detector technology are neither fool-proof. Both only point to possible deceptive behaviors; there's really nothing definitive about most lie detection protocols. If there were, then it would be more likely that such protocols would be allowed in court."

"I'm not sure I understand, Dr. Barnes," said the secretary, "but if you can help the police find out who killed Coach Croft, you should do it. Just be careful! We don't want anything to happen to you!"

"Thank you," she said, smiling. She believed the woman's concern and she also believed that she was relatively safe in continuing her acoustic investigation. Even so, her brakes had broken and she did get in an accident. She concluded her call with Jane Marie, a.s.sured that she would take care of Pamela's cla.s.ses in her one-day absence. She had barely hung up the receiver when the machine again rang. Lifting the handle, she spoke tentatively into it.

"Yes?"

"Your brake line was cut," snarled the voice she immediately recognized as Shoop's.

"You're sure?" she questioned him. This was not news she wanted to hear.

"Yup," he confirmed. "Nicked-made a slow leak. With a sharp instrument." He let the p.r.o.nouncement hang in the air, apparently awaiting her reaction.

"What does this mean?" she finally asked.

"It means-Dr. Barnes-that our killer considers you a threat," he said with precision. "We've got this person worried and trying to cover their tracks."

"And I'm the one lying on the road?" she screamed.

"Don't worry," he said, calmly. "We're not going to let anything happen to you. But, we are going to pursue your line of investigation."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he explained, "we're going to bring everyone in-every possible suspect in this case-and we're going to record them-and have you listen to them while we're doing it. We're going to make sure they know that you're helping us and we consider your input very valuable."

"You do consider my input very valuable, don't you?" she questioned.

"Of course," he replied, hesitantly, "but we're going to make certain our suspects know that. And we're going to see what they do next."

"In other words," she said cringing, "you're going to make me the guinea pig."

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

She didn't know how long she'd slept. It must have been those pain killer pills they gave her in the hospital yesterday-was it yesterday? Now, there was a throbbing in her forehead that woke her and caused her to reach up and gingerly touch her injured head. The large bandage ran from her hairline down through her eyebrow and into her eyelid. As her fingers touched her eye socket, she recoiled in pain. Every inch of the right side of her face was tender. She rolled over and glanced at her bedside clock.

"Ten o'clock," she read, squinting in the morning sunlight that filtered through her bedroom curtains. "I've slept away most of the morning."

Stretching and rolling out of bed, she awakened Candide who was snoozing along with his mistress at the foot of the bed. Pamela grabbed her comfy terrycloth robe from a nearby chair and pattered out to the kitchen where she retrieved a gla.s.s of water. Spying a plastic pill bottle on the counter, she quickly swallowed one of the capsules that they'd given her for pain. Then, she clung to the open refrigerator door as she searched for something easy to fix. Not finding anything ready-to-eat, she grabbed a banana from the counter holder and a roll from the bread box and started back to the bedroom with her cache. Candide pranced along behind her in hopes that she'd drop some food.

Before she reached the bedroom, the doorbell rang. Who would be visiting her today? In the morning? When she was recuperating? She dropped her food items on the dining room table and carefully edged her way to the front door. She cautiously placed her good eye-the left one-to the peep-hole in the door and squinted out to see the visitor.

It was Shoop. He was standing on her front porch, looking impatient-as usual. As her eyeball perused his form, trying to focus in on the man's face-and his motive for being at her front door-Shoop bent towards the door and aimed his eye directly at the peep-hole, seemingly aware that she was observing him from inside.

"Dr. Barnes," he called out to her. "Dr. Barnes, can you open the door? I see you there."

Oh, no, she murmured to herself. I thought this stupid hole was supposed to let me see who was at my front door in private. Is the man psychic?

"I know you're there, Dr. Barnes," continued Shoop. "I spoke with your husband. He told me you stayed home from work."

She pulled back and turned the doork.n.o.b. Squeezing the fluffy robe more tightly around her chest, she bent her head around the edge of the door. Shoop had pulled back the screen door and was standing, lodged in between the screen and the doorstep. He had his smug look on.

"Very fetching," he announced as he eyed what he could see of her bedroom attire.

"I'm home resting under doctor's orders," she explained. "You know that."

"Yes, Dr. Barnes," he said smiling knowingly, "I just dropped by to bring you a present."

"What?" she asked, incredulously. The man didn't have a sympathetic bone in his body. A present to him probably meant a speeding ticket.

"This," he said, reaching into his overcoat, he extracted a plastic CD case.

"Oh, no!" she cried. "What's that?"

"Consider it an addendum to the original," he said. "You have recordings of most of the suspects, but with the death of Skye Davis . . ."

"Who?"

"Skye Davis," he said, "the woman we believe was with Coach Croft in the motel room the day he was murdered."

"Oh, her," she muttered. She'd gotten so wrapped up in her own problems that she'd almost lost track of the fact that another murder had taken place.

"We've now questioned Ms. Davis's son and her secretary. We've also re-questioned Charlene Terlinger as well as the son of Abigail Prescott."

"And you want me to listen to them too?"

"Just do your thing, Dr. Barnes," replied the detective, leaning against her door frame, waving the CD case around tantalizingly as if it were a box of G.o.diva chocolate. "Someone-no doubt someone you've heard on one of these recordings-thinks you're a threat, which means they think you know something. Maybe you do."

"I don't know anything," she answered.

"Just listen to the recordings, Dr. Barnes," said Shoop, and he placed the little square under her nose with a snap. She reached up, unwillingly, and took it.

"What if this person-this someone-who considers me a threat decides to do more than just sabotage my car?"

"We won't let that happen," he replied.

"Oh, really, how?" she questioned.

"You see that Pontiac?" he stepped back and pointed to a green sedan parked a block down her street. She peered out where he pointed. "Officer Bradley, nice guy. He's been there since your husband left for work and he'll be there until he returns."

"Wonderful," she scowled. "Now I need protection."

"Now, you need to just rest," he said, nodding to the CD in her hand, "and listen to this CD while you're doing it." He lifted his bushy eyebrows.

"All right, all right," she responded, shooing him away as she clutched her robe more tightly around her neck. The small movement sent waves of new pain shooting up her forehead. Shoop was off the stoop. He turned back to her as he headed out to his car parked in front of her sidewalk.

"And, Dr. Barnes," he called, "take care of that eye. It looks like you're really going to have a s.h.i.+ner!" He beamed an uncustomary jaunty smile at her in farewell and strode off to his vehicle.

She carefully closed the front door and headed back inside. Along the way, she stopped in the family study where she grabbed a portable CD player, then adding the gla.s.s of water and the banana to her collection, she returned to her bedroom and climbed back into bed. After downing the banana in a few bites, she opened the CD and slid the new disk into her portable player. Then, she leaned back against her pillows and sipped her water, eyes closed as she listened to the new voices.

The recording began with a male officer's voice announcing the name of the suspect being questioned. The first voice she heard was that of Demetrius Davis, the son of the murdered Skye Davis. Like his mother, Demetrius spoke with no sign of a black dialect, much to Pamela's delight. She knew Willard felt a personal vindication whenever this common stereotype was dispelled. All she heard in the young man's voice was grief. From his responses to the questions, it was obvious that Demetrius Davis loved his mother and was proud of her. She had raised him alone. He had never known his biological father, although he did know his name. Skye Davis had refused any a.s.sistance although she had certainly qualified for it. Demetrius described his mother as a proud, energetic, hard-working, intelligent woman who had sc.r.a.ped her way to the top, becoming one of Reardon's most successful realtors. She had worked at a major agency before stepping out on her own just several years ago. She had instilled in her son a work ethic second to none and he was making his way through college with a combination of academic and football scholars.h.i.+ps, and work study. He was surprised that his mother was involved with the Coach-and that the Coach was involved with his mother. He didn't even realize that they knew each other well. He a.s.sumed they had met at one of the many family functions held for team members throughout the year. His mother had dutifully attended these events because she loved her only son and she reveled in his success on the football field. The two of them lived together in a modest, middle-cla.s.s home in a Reardon suburb.

Pamela listened to the young man's story-his monologue. She felt her heart go out to the young football player. The two most important adults in his life-the two people he admired most-were now dead-murdered-and not only murdered, but murdered in a horribly scandalous way. These two people had betrayed him by their involvement. All she heard in his voice was sadness and despair. Could he have found out about his mother's affair with his coach and become so enraged that he had followed the coach to his tryst with his mother and murdered him? Then later, could this young man have murdered his mother too?

She didn't think so, but she wasn't certain. The second voice was that of the Skye Davis' secretary-Derlinda Was.h.i.+ngton. This woman was the only office worker in Skye Davis's small real estate office. She was aware of all of Ms. Davis's comings and goings-all of her appointments. On the recording, she explained that on the day of the Coach's murder, Skye Davis had left the office to show a house-or that's what she had told her secretary. When she had returned later that afternoon around three o'clock, she had seemed perfectly normal. Derlinda Was.h.i.+ngton reported that Skye Davis had only mentioned Coach Croft in reference to her son Demetrius and often noted how much her son admired the man. The secretary indicated that she never suspected that her boss was having a s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p with the football coach. When asked about the day of Skye Davis's murder, the secretary reported that she had come to work that morning only to find her boss lying on the ground beside her car bleeding from her back. Derlinda had called 911 immediately, but it was too late. She noted that her boss often arrived at the office before she did because she was a workaholic.

Again, Pamela could see no motivation for this secretary to murder Coach Croft or her employer who'd had an affair with him. Ms. Was.h.i.+ngton seemed genuinely upset at the woman's death and truly sorry for her young son who was left behind. Also, Pamela realized that if Skye Davis had returned to her office by three o'clock the afternoon of the Coach's murder, she could probably be eliminated as a suspect in that murder as the autopsy report indicated time of death as between four and eight.

The third interview proved more enlightening. The voice was that of Charlene Terlinger. Of course, Pamela had heard this woman speak before-on the original voice mail recording. She was their Speaker Number One who had left messages #1, 2, and 6. It was this woman's son-Ricky-who had revealed the nature of the ident.i.ties of the mistresses when he recognized her as his mother as Shoop had played the recording in Rosemary Ellis's office. Now, Pamela heard Charlene Terlinger explain for the police the nature of the relations.h.i.+p that she had with Coach Wade Croft. Pamela a.s.sumed that much of what Charlene Terlinger was saying probably held true for Croft's other mistresses as well, even though, it became evident that the mistresses were totally unaware of each other-at least that was apparently Coach Croft's intent.

Charlene Terlinger's sweet, almost child-like voice floated through her bedroom.

"He was so nice," she said. "He was gentle and such a gentleman. Ricky adored him. I met him at that Team Family Picnic in the fall several years ago, when Ricky first joined the team. I mean, did you see him? He's tall and strong. He has the gentlest face. I can't believe he's gone . . ."

The questioner attempted to redirect Charlene Terlinger to her story.